rewrite
by Faerie0975
Summary: the sigh changes the scenario that's been repeated so many times you could recite it off by heart, and your heart skips a beat. and then he's improvising, going off the script, changing everything. / bade. set after "the worst couple."
1. prologue

**PROLOGUE - -**

* * *

"Look, I don't want to be your boyfriend if we're just going to fight all the time."

The only thing that you can find to say is, "So you want to break up?" It's automatic, a question you ask at least once a day, and the answer always brings the tiniest of smiles to your face. Now, though, he hesitates, and for a moment, you're worried.

"No, I - I didn't say that. I'm just saying -"

And then there's Trina, stepping forward excitedly. "You guys might break up?" You glare. She ignores you, fixes her gaze on him like she's hunting, like this is her chance to pounce and make a kill, get a boyfriend for once, whatever the proper end for that metaphor is. "Because I'm not dating anyone..." _Big surprise there,_ you want to say, but the possessive side of you is emerging now, and you're rolling your eyes slightly as you turn to tug a pillow from the couch by its corner. "And I've always thought Beck and I would make the perf-"

She's cut off by the misplaced pillow hitting her in the face, muffling the end of her sentence. You would smile, normally, but all you say is, "Next time it's a hammer." Trina stares at you, shocked; you turn around and head for the door. "Come on, Beck, take me to get some food." It's an order, not a question. Everyone else in the room is eerily silent, which is strange, given that two of their number are Cat and (God forbid you pretend he's alive, even for just a moment) Rex.

There's a long pause. You keep walking. He'll follow you, you know he will. He always does.

The sigh is something different, something that's never been added into the mix before. It changes the scenario that's been repeated so many times you could recite it off by heart, and your heart skips a beat. And then he speaks, and he's improvising now, going off the script, changing everything. "I'm tired of fighting."

You've reached the door by now, but you spin around to face him, dark hair flying out around you for a moment before settling back around your shoulders. "Okay." You're strangely calm and collected. You're an actress. You can pretend that your whole world isn't spinning, that it's not difficult to focus. "I'm going to walk out that door," you say coolly, bitterly, like you have so many times before. Maybe if you pretend that he's not being difficult and rewriting this scene, it will happen the way it always does. "And I'm going to count to ten."

"Don't forget three," Cat interrupts from the table. It suddenly becomes evident to you just how seriously everyone else is taking this. Nobody says anything, not even Rex, who constantly abuses Cat for the stupid things she says. You tell yourself it's because they've never seen this happen before, never seen the point where everything almost comes to an end and the two of you bounce back stronger than ever. "Some people forget it."

You continue, ignoring her, which is something you can't lie and pretend you're new to. "If I get to ten and you're not out there, I'm going home, and we're over." You turn on your heel; the doorknob twists in your fingers. "One," you shout over one shoulder, slamming the door shut behind you.

He'll follow you. Last time this happened - a couple of weeks ago, was it? - he was by your side again by the time you got to four, wrapping his arms around you tightly. The time before that, he'd been with you almost as quickly. He won't be long, you think confidently. "Two." You cross your arms and glare at the door's handle. You're impatient by nature, and you wonder how far he has left before he reaches the door. "Three," you call, thinking of Cat, narrowing your eyes. Stupid, stupid Cat. She's been your friend for years, as much as you hate to admit it, but some of the things she say get on your nerves. Still, she's always there for you, there for anyone who needs it. In Cat's life, everything is innocent and perfect and everybody loves everybody else, forever and always. She's only been to your house once or twice, when you were the only one home; if she'd met your parents, she wouldn't believe in everybody loving everybody else anymore.

"Four." He should be out here by now. "Five." A strange noise from inside. "Six." A thump, yelling. You pause. You almost want to open the door, just to see what's going on, but you stop yourself from reaching out for the handle, imagining your entire body frozen into place, like you're a statue, to keep yourself from moving. You have to keep counting. "Seven." What could possibly be taking him so long? "Eight." Pause. Breathe. "Nine." One more second, he only has one more second, and then what? What if he's not out here with you, if he doesn't open the door? What are you supposed to do then?

You purposely give him a little longer of a lapse between numbers now. The idea that he could stay inside Vega's fancy house with its bright colours that make you almost want to be sick is unbearable.

"Ten."

There's a long silence. Nothing to hear on the other side of the door, nothing to hear on your side, except for loud music pumping from somewhere that must be a couple blocks away. You feel almost as though you're stumbling backwards. Something must be wrong, something must be keeping him from getting to the door.

_I'll never leave you._ _I love you, Jade, forever. _

You step forward, left hand shaking. Your fingers brush against the cool metal of the door handle. He didn't open the door. He didn't open it, so why should you? He's made his choice. You snatch your hand back as if the door's cold handle has burned you, turn and hurry away as fast as your legs can carry you. It's not very fast, not really. You're shaking, you realize that as you fumble for your keys in your jacket pocket, and it doesn't seem to just be contained to your fingers. Your legs, too, and it slows you down, but you reach your car somehow. You can't stop, you can't pause for even a moment to glance back at the house. If you do, maybe you'll never get away, and you need to escape. From this night, this situation, Vega's house, _him._ You turn your key in the ignition and slam your foot down on the gas pedal and you're off, racing away far too fast for a residential area, but you don't care.

The street lights throw bright pools of light down onto the cement and the stars sparkle overhead the way they did that one night when you were lying next to him in his front yard when his parents were out for their anniversary and they weren't around to narrow their eyes at you and make pointed comments about your constant presence there. You wait until you're home, upstairs in your room, to pause. Sink down onto the edge of your bed and bury your face in your hands and then, only then, you can be human, just for a moment.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE | **_This is my first ever Victorious fanfic. I've been completely obsessed with this show for a while and Beck&Jade are my absolute favourite couple. I was legitimately crying when I watched this episode. Grr. They need an epic reunion. What do you guys think? Should I continue it?_


	2. a flood that wrecked this

**ONE - -**

* * *

You're sitting on the floor, which is uncomfortable and screams _loner_ just a little too loudly for comfort, but it's far enough away from _his_ locker that you'll accept it. A little too close to Vega's locker, if you really think about it. But for once, it hasn't been claimed as the morning's gathering place, and you're left to sit with your notebook and scribble pointlessly. Or, rather, write a song that's a little too sappy for your tastes, but it flows nicely, easily, from the tip of your ballpoint pen, no awkward pauses where you actually have to think. And you'll accept that, too.

And there's Cat, who you haven't really talked to for days now, taking the can that the vending machine's spit out at her and dropping it in the trash can about two seconds later. You frown, get to your feet. You're lonely, though you don't want to admit it, and the three days it's been since you last had a real conversation with one of those people you call a one-sided friend have been difficult, to say the least. To be honest, you miss them. You hate to think like that, though, so of course you push the thought down into the depths of your mind until it dares not make another appearance. "Cat?" She stops, stares at you with big eyes the colour of chocolate. "Why'd you just throw your drink in the trash?"

Her hands drop to hang loosely at her sides. "Because I wasn't thirsty." The way she answers, it sounds matter-of-fact, as if it makes perfect sense to everyone, not just to the inner workings of her strange mind. Even if you do miss her just as much as you miss the rest of them - more, perhaps, then Tori and Robbie and the damn puppet - you're annoyed by this sort of thing, as always.

"But you - you bought the -"

You cut yourself off, realizing it's hopeless, and give an exasperated sigh. "Oh, forget it." And then, before you can even briefly consider stopping yourself, you're adding on six words you didn't think would escape from your mouth, not to Cat, not to anyone except maybe to him, to Beck, but that's not going to be happening anymore, is it? "What are you doing Saturday night?" You make a futile grab for the tail end of the question as it slips from between your lips, but it's too late.

"I'm dog-sitting for my mom's boss," she answers, so matter-of-fact again.

"Oh." You can't stop yourself from sounding a little disappointed, and so you try to cover it up with a question, a distraction. "What kind of dog?"

"I'm not sure." She twists the top off a tube of lip gloss. "He's got paws and a tail." Cat's eyes light up and you prepare yourself for a mental image of yourself slamming your face into Vega's locker, the closest thing to a wall, at her next statement. "Maybe he's an English Pawtail!" You roll your eyes, unamused. Cat's antics don't amuse you much, really; they never have. "Why, what are you doing Saturday night?"

Is it just your imagination, or is that a hint of worry in her gaze now? Regret for asking the stupid question, worry that you might break down completely (_ha,_ as if you'd do that), wariness and pity. You can feel your expression morphing into a scowl. "What? What, you think 'cause Beck and I broke up I don't have anything to do Saturday night?" It's true. You don't have anything to do Saturday night, but Cat's notorious for reporting conversations back to other people whether you ask her to or not (especially if you ask her not to, really), and _she _still talks to him.

"No, I never said -"

"I've got a lot of things I'm going to do. Like, tons," you improvise wildly. She'll believe you. Cat will believe anything. "I mean," you add, exasperated, rolling your eyes, "if you want me to cancel my plans to come hang out with you while you dog-sit, then fine. Fine, I'll do it."

"You don't have to -"

"I said I'll do it!" you snap angrily. You take a step closer to her and she looks scared; you can see it in her eyes as you look down at her. "But you owe me, baby girl." And with that, you turn on your heel and stalk away.

The two of you used to hang out every Saturday night. This, you realize, will be the first Saturday night in almost three years that you'll be spending without him. Going out for dinner, going for an aimless walk, sitting on the couch in his RV with his arm draped around your shoulders - and now you're going to be with _Cat,_ of all people, this weekend, sitting motionless while she coos over a fluffy little dog. Some replacement.

_Shit._ Shit, there he is, standing with Robbie and his goddamn puppet, and Vega, which makes your stomach turn, but you avoid his eyes, even as he spouts out a simple _Hey,_ like he thinks that if he does this every day, maybe the two of you can be friends in the end. Emotionless, keeping your gaze locked straight ahead, only that first flicker to look at him and wish he'd opened that door, or that you'd given in and opened it yourself, or _something,_ you snap, "Yeah, hey." And then you're off. If you stop, you'll never start again. Don't stop walking, don't stop walking. It's a mantra.

* * *

Cat buzzes you into her mother's boss' house, which is huge - if you hadn't known that by looking at it from the outside, you would have picked it up from the way that your voice seems to echo up and down the halls as you call her name. "Cat! Yo, Cat!"

"In here!" she calls in answer, and you follow the sound of her voice until you spot her violently-red hair.

"Hey," you say, coffee in hand, glancing around the room as if you need to approve of it. The dog sitting on the couch with Cat is white and fluffy and small, and that's all you really need to know about him. You don't want to be here, not really. But this has to be better than sitting by yourself in your bedroom and staring around at all of the reminders of Beck Oliver that you haven't cut up yet. Which would be all of them. You can't bring yourself to take a pair of scissors to a picture or a t-shirt. Cat's making the dog wave at you. The dog reminds you of a Q-tip. "Sick place," you decide, still looking around curiously. "Your mom's boss must be, like, a bazillionaire." It's not a real word. Cat won't care. You hate people who make up words, and now you're one of them. Does that mean you hate yourself?

"He is! He owns a really fancy car and part of Texas," she explains happily, cradling the Q-tip dog in her arms.

"He owns _part _of Texas?"

"Yeah, but just like... the top part."

She makes you leave Elvis Presley's guitar alone. When she tries to hug you, you scream at her. You investigate the man's bedroom, curious, and find a skull, a real skull. It's smooth to the touch and cool and you carry it back out to show Cat. Things seem normal, if you really think about it. Except for the fact that this is a _Saturday night,_ and Saturday nights are always filled with Beck and coffee and kisses and maybe a little fighting, but only the kind that gets resolved when he pulls you in, not the kind where he doesn't open doors that are keeping you apart.

The crash startles you. The guitar flies out the window and down into the bushes outside it. "That guitar was not properly hung," you say calmly, but when Cat doesn't seem to find this funny, you lean carefully over the broken, jagged glass and haul the guitar back into the living room. Or, rather, the pieces of it. While Cat sits frozen on the couch, you find silver duct tape and attempt to put it back together, but it looks terrible. Cat's going to get in trouble with her mother's boss, and it's your fault.

* * *

"Cat? Hey, Cat!" It's a familiar voice, and you can only hope that Robbie hasn't brought Rex, because you aren't in any mood to spend your first Saturday night without Beck wanting to strangle a puppet.

"You called Robbie?" Your tone is incredulous.

"Yeah, so he could help us put up the guitar and fix the window."

"Robbie can barely work the zipper on his own pants," you snap, but you turn to face the doorway as he appears, anyways. And freeze, of course, when someone you would recognize anywhere follows him into the room. For a moment, it seems almost as though time has stopped. You stare at him with wide eyes and he looks back at you, a little shocked, if you can still read his emotions the way you used to be able to, if he lets you see that in his eyes now. Something inside you seems to twist painfully. Then he's moving again, not saying anything, setting down whatever it was he was carrying that you can't focus on because you're too busy trying to check every inch of his beautiful face to see if you can tell how he's coping -

You spin to face Cat. "Why did you invite Beck?"

"I thought you had a date tonight," he says before the redhead can answer, and you turn back to face him, doing your best to look expressionless.

"Why would you think that?" You take a couple of steps towards him and nearly have to restrain yourself from uncrossing your arms and breaking into a run, wrapping your arms around his neck and -

He shrugs. "Said so on your Slap page."

"Why were you stalking my Slap page?" You raise one eyebrow at him, now only a couple of feet away, and stop.

"Why do you care?"

"Why is Robbie's zipper down?" That's Cat, frowning, and Robbie jumps to fix it, blushing.

* * *

You pointedly ignore Beck as he wanders around aimlessly. The window repair company comes and goes; you spot the ladder for Robbie, who tries to look as though he knows what he's doing with the cables and the broken guitar. You yell at him when he picks up the skull. You half-want it in your hands again, if only for the short walk back to the man's bedroom so you can replace it on the bookshelf. Beck doesn't say a single word to you, not now, and you refuse to make eye contact with him. There are no doors in between you now, but there might as well be. The guitar falls from what Robbie tries to say was a secure position, a glass coffee table cracks under the impact of a human skull dropping onto its fragile surface.

And then Beck's arms are around Cat, and you try to tell yourself it's because he was standing right next to her - but why was he standing right next to her? He should be next to you, where he belongs -

_No._

You can't afford to think like that. He didn't open the door. He doesn't love you anymore. Maybe he never did. He has broken every single promise that he ever made to you; and every _I love you_ was a lie, too, you're sure of it now. Three years. Wasted time, or at least for him, surely. He doesn't need you the way you have always needed him, doesn't want to be the one standing next to you until the end of forever. Forever is a very long time (he told you that he would love you forever).

_Bzz._

Cat answers, a brief discussion with a deep male voice; her mother's boss has returned. His living room, at the very least, is a complete disaster. Elvis' guitar hangs by a thread from the ceiling; glass litters the floor, a skull lying amidst the broken shards; and Robbie's pants are undone again (how does he manage that?). After a delay as long as she can make it, Cat buzzes the boss in and curls up into a tiny ball in an armchair, sniffling -

And suddenly the ground is shaking, the walls are vibrating, the ceiling is rumbling.

"What's happening?" says Robbie stupidly.

Normally, you'd glare at him. Tonight, you're preoccupied. "Earthquake," you yell, panicking a little, and everyone clears to the sides of the room, except for you. All you can think of is to drop onto the couch and use a throw pillow to cover your face as you curl up into a ball tighter than the one Cat's just emerged from. Chunks of the ceiling crash down around you, and you bury your face farther beneath the pillows, reaching up to cover your neck. The quaking doesn't last long, and the earth is still again moments later. You look up, find Beck releasing Cat. _Cat_. He was protecting _Cat_. Cat before her, and what did that mean? _It means he doesn't love you anymore._ That's fine, you try to tell yourself. It doesn't matter. You can live through that. You've lived through plenty; a break-up should be nothing.

Except that it's a break-up with Beck Oliver, and you love him.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE |**_ This took longer than I expected to get up! I had it all written, but it was terrible, and I ended up rewriting it three times to get it to this point. Still, I don't think it's the best... But it's up, anyways. XD_


	3. the tears froze on my face

**TWO - -**

* * *

You can't stand this.

How long has it been since you counted up to ten? You hate keeping track, so you don't (but if anybody really wants to know, it's been seventeen days and thirteen hours and eleven minutes). You hate that you're doing things that you're supposed to hate, and you hate that he's so close all the time but so far away. And while you're at it, you hate that you just used that cliché, because a cliché is predictable, and you hate predictability. You still can't say his name without that twist of pain somewhere deep in your chest, and you hate that, too.

You hate everything right now. Cat's been good about it, trying not to bring him up and realizing whenever she slips and says it, which is strange, foreign, because Cat is Cat, after all, and never realizes anything. Even more startling is the way that Vega is reaching out to you with open arms, worrying about you, meeting your eyes across classrooms and hallways and the Asphalt Cafe, because you never eat lunch with them anymore. _He's_ there and you don't think you could take that.

Mostly, you eat alone. Sometimes, Cat joins you; her red hair flies around her as she races across to your table and she tries to entertain you with her stupid stories about her brother (because she knows that you hate them _less_, at the very least, than hearing about what _he's_ been up to). Once or twice a week, Vega will come with her, and she gets that you half-_want_ to torture yourself with news of _him_ and how he's doing - she tells you in hushed tones that he's quieter now, more brooding, but you could tell that just from looking at him, anyways.

Nobody else seems to want to talk to you. You're a loner now, after all - apparently, _he_ was the one who brought the popularity that you prided yourself on. They're all still scared of you, though, of your glares and threats and combat boots and the scissors you throw sometimes. You like that, because it leaves you with just the tiniest speck of dignity.

You've managed to keep all of the reminders of him intact - you still refuse to bring a pair of scissors or a pocket knife or even just a regular knife to any of it. Maybe you're that much of a masochist, that you'll punish yourself with it all. You make yourself sit there before you go to sleep every night, all the lights on, sitting on your bed with your knees drawn tight to your chest and your cell phone in one hand. Your eyes roam over all of the pictures, the plaid shirts strewn across the floor, the necklace that matches his lying across the top of your dresser. You stare at the screen of your cell phone, fingers hovering uselessly over the numbers on its touch-screen, like you're daring yourself to dial his number.

You deleted his number so you won't call him, _but you still remember it (you know it by heart, you always will)._ But maybe without his name lingering in your contacts, overstaying its welcome there, you can start to forget about him.

It doesn't work; maybe because of all of the souvenirs of the last three years all over your room, the tiny picture still in your wallet, the way that some days you wear your matching necklace and just drop it under the collar line of your shirt, hoping that nobody will notice. Maybe it's because some nights after you turn your lights out, you open up your laptop and log onto the Slap and rewatch all the videos you made with him, way back when.

Whatever it is, you always end up forcing yourself to drop your phone over the edge of your bed and onto the hardwood floor with a loud, resounding _bang_ like a gunshot. Surprisingly, the screen only has three or four real cracks across it, which doesn't seem to measure up with the seventeen days and thirteen hours and twelve minutes now.

You're sitting in improv, all the way across the room from his usual seat and your (ex)usual seat. You pointedly examine your nails when _he _comes in; he's talking to Andre (because you can still say Andre's name). You keep your gaze trained down at your black nail polish (it needs repainting, it's chipping off) until they sit down, then look back to the door. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that your old seat is still empty. But the next person who comes in is a bombshell blonde who takes the seat next to him without a second thought, giggling, like she doesn't even notice your eyes shooting fire at her back. You hate bombshell blondes. Can blue eyes shoot fire, even though they're the wrong colour?

Bombshell Blonde's friend has taken Cat's normal seat, and when Cat comes into the room, of course she doesn't say anything, just drags Tor- _Vega_ over to sit next to you. "Hey!" she says excitedly, throwing her arms around your neck like she didn't see you less than two periods ago in songwriting.

You push her off, but shoot her a tiny, rare smile as Sikowitz races in, barefoot as usual, screaming something unintelligible, coconut in hand.

He chooses Vega as the captain of a game of Alphabetical Improv, and she bounds up to the stage with a wicked smile curving her lips upwards. You lean back in your chair, sliding down slightly so that you're more comfortable, drumming your fingers on the back of your phone. "Cat," she starts, which is obvious. "Jade" - which is not - "and Sam, Colin, and..." As you and the others make your way up to the stage, she scans the room carefully, a mischevious glint in her eye. "Beck."

You give her a glare that would send Chuck Norris to the grave, but she doesn't appear to notice. She looks pleased with herself.

She _will_ regret this.

You cross your arms over your chest and stare off into the distance as _he_ climbs up onto the stage. He carefully chooses the spot next to Colin, who you know he _barely_ knows, because the other end of the line has you, and who wants to stand next to Jade West?

"Andre, give us a place," calls Sikowitz, looking excited. You narrow your eyes at them both, then look down at your nails again. If you pick off more of the black nail polish, it'll look worse, and then you'll actually remember to redo it when you get home after school (that can't come fast enough).

"Uh, a... a... grocery store," mumbles Andre. You watch as Vega rolls her eyes. Clearly, she had something different in mind. Sikowitz nods and asks for a situation, and Rex (ugh, there you go, referring to the puppet like he's - _it's_ - a person again) barks out an _unexpected reunion, _and Blonde Bombshell calls out for an _A_ to begin.

"And... action!"

Vega starts. She's shouting, and her voice is more annoying than it was this morning when she said hi to you as you passed her in the hallway. Her acting voice is always louder, more shrill, and you don't like it. "Apples! Miss, can you help me find apples, please?" she asks, tapping Cat on the shoulder.

"But - but I don't work here," says Cat, putting on a confused face that really doesn't look all that different than the one she wears almost on a regular basis. You can practically feel _his_ eyes on you, and your hand flies up to your neck to double-check that this isn't one of those days that you put on my necklace. You're disappointed when your fingers find it settled around your neck like nothing's wrong, like nothing's changed. Maybe he won't notice.

He shuffles a couple of steps to stand next to Vega and Cat. "Can I help you?" His voice sounds dead. You wonder if that's just because it's whatever character he's putting on or if it's reality shining through no matter how hard he tries.

"Derek," starts Sam, who you've never spoken to before in your life, "some kid peed in aisle three, can you clean that up?" This is boring. You're bored. You pick at your nails some more and drop a flake of black nail polish, watching as it flutters to the ground like a leaf falling from the tree in front of your house. Derek doesn't suit him. Be- his real name does, even if you can't bring yourself to even think it right now. Maybe you'll cut up some of those pictures tonight.

"Easy, I'm going," _he_ sighs, holding up his hands and starting across the stage. _Shit,_ he's coming towards you - but you decide your best plan of action is to not move, to ignore him. Sikowitz doesn't look impressed, sitting at the back of the classroom with his legs crossed, cradling his daily coconut between both hands. Maybe it's because of you; you're usually more invested in Alphabetical Improv.

"Faster!" Sam calls after him. God, this is the most uneventful improv game that you've ever taken part in (or, rather, stood on the sidelines of).

Perhaps you can find wherever it is that your mother stashed the matches after that time you almost set the couch in the living room on fire last year. Some of his shirts have been waiting for a fire (how much longer can you bear to let them wait, really?).

"Going," says an irritated Be- _him,_ which makes no sense grammatically, but you'll deal with it if it means not having to feel the twinge of pain from every other time you think his name.

"Hey, can you help me find the apples?" Vega says desperately, wheeling around to face Sam now. You roll your eyes and let another piece of black nail polish flutter down and away from your fingertips.

"I most certainly can," he agrees, "follow me." He takes a few steps over to the opposite side of the stage and points to the windowsill.

"Jade?"

You spin around before you can stop yourself.

_He_ is staring at you, eyes wide, like he's only just noticed that you're there, but from the expression sparkling there you can tell that it's an act. You look down before you can get lost in his eyes because you always used to do that. _Think fast, Jade,_ you tell yourself. _K comes next. It's a game. This is supposed to be an unexpected reunion and you can't get out of this now._ "Kevin" - you grab blindly for Colin's arm because he's the closest to you and you can't think of a good word that starts with _K_ - "stay with me. Uh..." You're acting, this isn't _him,_ this is a guy named Derek who works at a grocery store and just so happens to look exactly like him. "Hi, Derek."

Derek is easier to say, to think than his real name. You decide to refer to him as that, at least until it starts hurting, too. Derek looks lost for words, then says, "Let me explain."

"Maybe I don't want to hear your excuses," you snap. (This isn't acting. This is real.) _Pretend it's acting, everyone else will think it is, too._ Sikowitz looks more intrigued now. Vega glances over her shoulder from where she's pretending to pick up apples from the windowsill, looking ecstatic (you'll kill her later).

"No, just let me -"

"Or maybe," you say, voice filled with sugary sweetness that makes you want to puke, "I'm the one who messed everything up, because I'm _always_ the one at fault, right?" Colin fidgets next to you. You'll have to think of whatever it is that _Kevin_ is supposed to be doing - maybe he's your new boyfriend for the rest of the scene. Yes, that will work.

Where would your mother keep matches?

"Peaches are over here," calls Sam, clearly trying to diffuse the tension. You ignore it, staring at Be- _him,_ hands hanging by your sides, fists clenched tight enough to leave little crescent marks embedded in your palms.

"Look, it's Queen Elizabeth!" shouts Cat, obviously putting too much effort into simply using the _Q_ and not paying attention to its placement. Sikowitz waves to get her attention and she sighs, sadly meandering off the stage and back to her seat.

"Queasy," groans Colin, holding his stomach and grimacing, "I feel queasy..." _No one cares,_ you want to say, but you're too busy narrowing your eyes at your ex-boyfriend to really care that much, even if he's supposed to be with you in whatever scene you're pushing your way through.

"Rest over here," calls Vega, "I'll help you - I'm a doctor." Colin crosses over to the window and she helps him sit down, crouching next to him and pretending to feel his forehead for a temperature.

"So," you snap, surprising even yourself, "why didn't you open the door?"

"Trina."

"Uh... What does she have to do with anything?"

"Vega - she attacked me."

You roll your eyes. This is so far from an improvised scene that you can't hold back anything, it's all going to come flooding out, and you hate that. You want to be in control. "Why. Didn't. You. Open. The. Door." It comes out harsh, bitter. It's not a question, but you wait for an answer anyways. Vega's annoying older sister isn't a proper reason. It wouldn't have been seventeen days and thirteen hours and nineteen minutes if that had been all that had been stopping him.

"You and I," he tries, "all we did was fight."

_(How is that any worse than it is now?)_

"Zuccini is great for upset stomachs," supplies Vega from the corner. You ignore her again (you seem to be doing that a lot).

"And so you wanted to break up with me."

"But I didn't say that -"

"Could've fooled me." You cross your arms over your chest again and raise your pierced eyebrow at him. He looks lost for words, and that's satisfying to you. You turn slightly away from him, but he steps around you, far too close for comfort - or not close _enough_ for comfort, sometimes you can't tell the difference.

"Derek, can you -" Sam reappears, an expression of understanding crossing his face as _he_ looks up to convey an apparently-very-meaningful look, and he turns around again.

"Eat this medicine," announces Vega, shoving a mint in Colin's direction.

Be- _he_ is looking down at you with a somewhat-frightening glint in his eyes, and you have to get off of this stage. You don't care how; you just have to get away. "Just leave me alone," you snap, stepping back.

"Jade!" sighs Sikowitz from the back of the room. "The next letter -"

"Was _F,_ I know," you retort, smirking slightly as you hurry back to your seat. Cat gives you a worried glance as you sink down into your chair, but you don't meet her gaze. You just look down, pulling a sleek black pair of scissors from your bag and using one of the pointed blades to scrape off still more of your nail polish.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE |** _Ugh, I'm sorry that this took so long! I literally lost most of this chapter four times while I was trying to write it, I don't even know what's up with my computer right now, it's ridiculous. And every time I tried to rewrite it, it turned out worse than the last time, and it was so good the first time and I can't get it back. Grr. We're off the storyline of the last few episodes now, so yay! Next chapter should be slightly more eventful, I think. Anyways. I've been so busy with all this friend drama and exams and the end of school and graduation, but now that summer is officially here, I should hopefully have more time to write. I hope you guys are still out there!_


	4. a drop in the ocean

**THREE - -**

* * *

Your fingers are shaking as you try to turn the key in the ignition.

It's a simple plan, a flawless plan. Go to his house, park in his driveway, knock on the door of his RV, get everything you've left there, go home. You have a cardboard box sitting in your passenger seat, the kind that paper for your father's printer comes in, full of his things (except for your favourite two shirts and the matching necklace that you've made sure you aren't wearing today and one picture). You won't let yourself keep anything else, and you're almost as determined about this as you are about not destroying any of the things in that box with the scissors Cat got you for Christmas that year that she was your Secret Santa.

You back out of the driveway and flip off your neighbour when she glares at you for speeding in a residential area. She'll show up at your front door later and try to yell at you like she's your mother, and you'll swear at her and slyly pull out your favourite pair fo scissors and start cutting up something, maybe the hem of your dad's jacket where it hangs in the hall closet, until she leaves. It's like a routine by now.

The ride to the RV is short and you don't pay attention as you drive; you memorized every turn years ago. You park in his driveway and then just sit there, looking up at the big house, teeth digging into your lower lip. There's a light on upstairs and you think you can see the silhouette of his mother in the window. You imagine her frowning down at you, wondering what you're doing here, if you're back together. She's probably worried about that. She's never liked you.

Well, she doesn't need to stress out about it, you suppose. It's highly unlikely that you and Beck Oliver (oh, shit, you thought his name, and your heart is doing that funny thing where it feels like it's twisting) are going to get back together.

Taking a deep breath to prepare yourself, you unlock your car door and are out of the vehicle before you can stop yourself. You stare regretfully at the car for a moment, but decide against driving away and simply pull the paper box out of the passenger seat and, supporting it with your hip, head for the RV.

You knock before you can stop yourself.

He opens the door before you can turn and run for it, and you stare at each other for a long moment. "Jade," he says, carefully, cautiously, like it's taking a lot of effort to make sure that your name doesn't have too much emotion dripping from it. Because Beck Oliver (damn it!) doesn't do emotion.

"Beck." You regret saying it, but at least it comes out cool, icy. You hold out the cardboard paper box. "Here's your stuff."

He looks down at the box and you're suddenly struck by how real all of this is. This makes it serious; you're _giving back his things_ and you're here to _get your things_ and that makes everything so _official._

"Uh, thanks."

You wait, but he doesn't say anything else, just takes the box from you and seems to put a great deal of effort into making sure that his fingers don't brush yours as he does. After a long moment, you roll your eyes and return to the old Jade, the impatient one. "Well? You going to let me come get my stuff?"

He does, silently, and he stands awkwardly in the center of the RV as you tug the box out of his grip and upend its contents unceremoniously onto his bed. You can practically feel his eyes following you as you start to drop your things into the box, and the silence of the RV is stifling. As quickly as you can, you pull scissors and pocket knives from hidden places and clothes from drawers and the couch's armrest and a toothbrush from the tiny, cramped bathroom. It takes all of six minutes for you to have everything, and the box is almost full when you turn to him.

"Well, I guess that's it." You brush past him (without touching him, which takes a lot of calculation and can't really count as _brushing_ past him to begin with) and start across the driveway, back to your car.

He follows you.

The box is replaced in the passenger seat and you use your car key to pick at a bit of dirt underneath your fingernail. You haven't repainted your nails in the couple of days since the disastrous game of Alphabet Improv, and you resolve to do that tonight.

Your gaze flickers up to meet his and he says, "So," in a very conversational sort of tone. He falls silent again as you look at him, though, and you return to picking at the dirt under your nails until he speaks again. "Jade... I don't know what I'm supposed to say."

"You're supposed to say goodbye."

"But," he starts, and then it's silent again. The light is still on in the house. You don't glance up to see if his mother's silhouette is still outlined dark against the yellow light, but you can see the square of light that falls over the driveway. "But," he tries again, but this seems to fall short, too, and you're growing impatient.

He's so impossibly close, suddenly, and you realize that just a split second before he's leaning down and kissing you.

_Kissing_ you.

You freeze for a split second, but it's Beck Oliver (another painful twist deep in your chest at that) and you can't resist for long. You reach up to rest your hands on his chest like you're going to push him away, but you can't bring yourself to do that. So, instead, you settle for letting one hand slide up to curl around him and twist itself into his hair. His hands are on your waist, pulling you closer and closer and closer, and you're very acutely aware of each point where his fingertips touch you.

It's easy for you to fall back into his arms like this, you think, because you never really wanted to leave in the first place.

And so, now, you both just pull each other closer, and as he deepens the kiss, you find yourself pressed back against the side of your car. Every nerve in your body is tingling and wherever you're touching him or he's touch you or you're touching each other, it's just _not enough_ and so you melt into him. The kiss breaks slowly after some indeterminable amount of time and you don't pull away from him, staying wrapped up in each other until you at least get the sense to unwrap your arms from around his neck. He's still holding you, though, and suddenly all you want is to get away, so you pull his hands off your waist and shove him backwards so that you can climb into your car and drive away, and you only check your rear view mirror about seven times before you turn off his street.

* * *

"How did the plan work out?"

"Brilliantly." You can't help the sarcasm that creeps into each syllable as you glare at Tori. Cat looks offended (which makes no sense because your eyes weren't spitting blue fire at _her,_ really) and you continue, rolling your eyes. "You know - the plan wasn't exactly to go and make out with him while I was making the whole break-up situation official, right?"

Tori sighs. She seems to have taken it upon herself to be your personal guide through either getting back together with Beck (her obvious preference) or getting over him. It's infuriating, but you can't help but feel a little flattered that she has the audacity to put up with you for long enough to do so. "Well... Was it good? I mean, was it - did you like kissing him again?"

You shrug noncommittally._ Of course, _you think scathingly, but you don't say it because nobody needs to know these things, not even your personal Beck guide and her redheaded assistant.

"What did he say after?" Tori pesters you, and you sigh, defeated. She'll never let you get away with eating your lunch in peace. Silently, thinking, you stab your plastic white fork into the mutilated leaves of your salad.

Letting out an exasperated sigh in a long _whoosh_ of air, you shrug again, shoulders moving just a fraction of an inch up and then down. "He didn't say anything, Vega. I turned away and drove off before he could open his mouth." She looks up from her burger in protest at the sound of her last name, which is something you don't say often anymore, but doesn't say anything. You return to your salad.

* * *

"Jade - hey, Jade," he says (don't think his name, don't think it, don't, or you'll get that damn twist of pain in your chest again). You're packing up your things after improv and Sikowitz has already made his exit for the day, dramatically climbing out the window a good two minutes before class ends. Be- _he_ hands you the biology textbook from the chair next to you silently. "Jade," he says again, and you edge away from him slightly because he's saying your name just a little too many times to just want to give you your biology textbook, and you don't know if you want to hear whatever it is that's really going through his mind.

"What?" You mean it to come out angry, uninterested. But it ends up airier, more tired, more hesitant. He doesn't say anything about it, doesn't seem distracted by your half-maybe attempt at being the old Jade West. You can't decide if you want to close the distance between you and kiss him, or turn and run until your feet won't let you take another step.

"We need to talk."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE | **_All right, so guess what? I'm eighteen now! I can legally vote. And get a tattoo, if I wanted one. And do other things that I'm not interested in. The voting thing scares me because I know nothing about politics. Yesterday morning (now), my family went out for breakfast and I got a colouring sheet (don't tell anyone, but I asked for one) and you could definitely not tell that I was eighteen and have graduated. But whatever. I embrace my own immaturity. In other news, I'm thinking about changing my username on here from Faerie0975 (because that's so old, from like so many years ago) to ryla_mae (because that's my Twitter name, if any of you lovely readers would like to follow me, ryla_mae). Can you put underscores in usernames on here?_

_EDIT: So I read over the end and realized that I should never, ever try to post chapters at two o'clock in the morning. I kept falling asleep at my keyboard and it was just a bad idea. Everything was full of nonsensical details and somehow Jade's neighbour was there and there was a counter of some kind. I'm sorry that people had to read that. Anyways, it's fixed now._


	5. waiting for the droplets

**AUTHOR'S NOTE | **_Okay, so I apologize to anyone who read the last chapter when it didn't make sense. I got a couple of reviews and messages when I woke up, asking where Jade's neighbour came from, and I was really confused and went to read over what I'd written. Note to self - never, EVER let yourself publish any sort of writing at two o'clock in the morning. That was... horrible. It's fixed now._

* * *

**FOUR - -**

* * *

_We need to talk._ He says it so nonchalantly, like you'll just nod and sit down and listen to everything he has to say. You have no intention of doing that, obviously. He should be able to tell by the way you roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest while you try to think of a suitably witty answer. You read somewhere that crossing your arms means you're feeling insecurity or defensiveness, but you try not to think about that, at least for the time being.

And you can't come up with something perfectly witty to say, nothing springs to the tip of your tongue, so you settle for, "I have to go," and push out of the classroom without a second glance.

You hear him call your name from the doorway, but you force yourself to keep walking. You can't turn around and you won't _let yourself,_ and you tell yourself that it's easy, just one foot in front of the other until you reach the parking lot. Tori's waiting next to your car, fingers tapping over her PearPhone like she means _business._

"Come on, we're going," you snap, because you've been driving her home for the past week. She doesn't _like_ driving home with Trina, she says, and Cat offered to give her a ride, but Cat's brother isn't exactly the sort of guy that many people are comfortable being around. Tori climbs into the passenger seat of your car without saying anything, and you can only be thankful for that. She's been spending so much time hanging around you, trying to figure out how to piece you back together or whatever it is that she thinks she's doing, that she's learned a little bit about you. Miraculously, she's intelligent enough to realize that you aren't in the mood to talk about what just happened.

And so she waits as the car ride begins in silence. Because she knows that it will come out eventually.

She's right, of course. You're halfway to her house, having just crawled to a stop behind a red pickup truck that looks like Beck's at a traffic light, when you lean back to stare at the ceiling of your car and the words fly out before you can stop them.

"What the _hell_ does he think he's doing?"

Tori's smart enough to keep quiet. She'll let you get everything out before she says anything.

"He comes up to me after class, right, and all he says is, 'We need to talk.'" You let out an exasperated sigh and hit the steering wheel with one hand. The horn lets out an irritable honk and whoever's driving the truck in front of you honks back, rolling down their window to form a rude hand gesture in your direction. You continue as if you haven't noticed. "Like he can't tell that I _don't want to._ So I told him I had to go and he probably tried to _follow_ me or something, I don't know. Anyways. I don't want to talk to him about anything. We're _over_. Isn't kissing me enough closure for him? Why can't he just _leave me alone?"_

You fall silent, breathing hard, unsure what else to say. Tori sounds hesitant when she finally speaks. "What - what do you think he, uh, wanted to talk about?" You glare at her, and she doesn't say anything else, only picks up her PearPhone from where it lies in her lap and pretends to be very interested in a scratch across the top of the screen, teeth digging into her lower lip.

The light turns green and you take your foot off the brake. Silence overtakes the car down and you put your window down an inch or two because the quiet is threatening to suffocate you. Which is strange, really, because the quiet isn't so bad. Tori Vega is just such an annoyingly talkative person that you've sort of learned to appreciate those moments when she shuts up. This silence, though, pushes into every corner and closes in around you and you don't like it, not at all. Opening the window doesn't do much, other than let a little bit of the rushing sound of the traffic on all sides into the car, but even that disappears as you draw closer to Tori's house.

You don't go into her house anymore. For the past several days, you've brought the car to a full stop at the end of the driveway and waited for Tori to get out, hardly even looking at her because that means looking at her _house_ and if you look there, you can just see the front door, and that opens the floodgates and so many memories start crowding into every crevice of your mind and you can't handle that.

Tori fumbles with the strap of her book bag and reaches for the door handle. You keep your gaze fixed on the road ahead, a certain point in the pavement that looks maybe a little lighter than the rest of it.

"I don't know what he wanted to talk about," you say quietly, forcing your voice to sound emotionless because that makes it sound a little more like you know what you're doing. "And I don't care."

The car door opens and Tori climbs out, dropping her binder with a loud clatter. You don't move. She pokes her head back into the car before shutting the door. "I think you do." Her words echo in your mind in a whisper as she hurries towards the house.

* * *

"Hello?"

You hold your breath for a moment, hoping he'll hang up, but decide that you're just being a baby and let it out in a low sigh. He can probably already tell it's you, just from that sigh, even if you blocked your number before you called. "Hi."

"Jade," he says, and just as you expected, he doesn't sound surprised. He's probably been waiting by the phone like a truly desperate single boy for hours now. You glance at the clock on your bedside table, its neon green lights outlining that it's seven minutes to midnight.

The only thing you can think of in answer is, "Beck." There's a silence, the same kind that you felt in the car with Tori earlier, and you glance around your bedroom before reaching over to open your window. Quietly, you move from the edge of your bed to sit on the floor, leaning against the wall next to the window, holding your cell phone between your shoulder and your ear. With one finger, you trace around the gold ring hanging on a black string that matches his. "What did you want to... talk about after school?"

"I'm sorry."

You allow this to sink in for a full twenty-six seconds before answering. _He's sorry._ That's what you've been waiting for, isn't it? But his apology is late, nineteen days and four hours and thirty-two minutes late. Hesitantly, you ask, "For what?"

"For - God, for everything, Jade. For what I said during Sinjin's stupid show and for making a big deal out of it all. And for fighting and letting Trina try to distract me and not opening the door." He pauses, but only for a moment, and then he's rushing on, like he's trying to distract you from thinking about the door and how its handle never got turned. "I'm sorry for trying to pretend that everything was okay after, and I'm sorry for protecting Cat at her mom's boss' house when the earthquake hit" - Cat needed more protecting than you did, you think, but you don't cut in because you've been waiting _so long_ to hear all of this - "and I'm sorry for bringing up any of it when we were doing Alphabetical Improv. And for kissing you last night. I - everything, you know. I, uh, I didn't realize, really, how much I needed - _need_ - you until you were gone, you know? And I know you hate clichŽ stuff like that, but it's true, and... I just want you back."

He stops and you lean back slightly until the back of your head is resting on the window sill. You try to hold your breath again because you're sure that after hearing him say all that (especially that last part), it'll be shaky and you'll sound weak and _vulnerable._ So you press your lips together and put your necklace down on the hardwood floor next to you and wait until he says in a very uncertain sort of way, "Jade?"

Then you take a deep breath and start talking so fast that your words blur together at the edges. "But you did say it, and you didn't open the door, and you did kiss me when we're supposed to be broken up, and all that other stuff. You - you can't just apologize for it all and make everything be okay again, Beck. It doesn't work that way."

You swallow here and blink a couple of times, because tears are stupidly threatening to overflow and roll down your cheeks. You collect yourself and start up again, a little more calm. "Remember in the eighth grade when you first talked to me, and you asked me out and I said no, and you asked me again three times a week, even in the summer before we started at Hollywood Arts, until I finally said yes?"

On the other end of the line, Beck takes a deep breath and you bite your lip while you wait for an answer. It takes twelve seconds for him to hesitantly, cautiously, respond. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember."

"Okay." You switch your PearPhone from one ear to the other and take another deep breath. "Just... just think about that for a while. 'Cause you're going to have to try at least that hard to get me to say yes this time."

Before he can answer, you hang up. Tori will be proud, you think. She'll say you're standing up for the feminist movement or something. You'll roll your eyes and tell her that she's making no sense as you pull into the school parking lot, you can picture it now. But it took way too much effort to be proud of yourself now, and maybe even later. You draw back your arm and throw your phone across the room, but instead of hitting the closet door you were aiming for, it lands almost harmlessly in a pile of clothes your mother laid out on the chair at your desk while you were at school. You curl your hands into fists so that your nails dig into your palms hard enough to leave little crescent moons embedded in your skin, and sit as still as a statue on your bedroom floor under the window until the clock turns to four o'clock and you manage to pitifully drag yourself to your bed for two and a half hours of sleep (which you don't even get all of) before school.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE #2 | **_I really wanted to post this on Liz's birthday, but I missed my own deadline. So, happy belated birthday to the amazing Liz Gillies!_

_Okay, so I'm thinking about doing a Beck-centered story, the same sort of style as this one, going through the episodes from TWC (sniff) to whenever Beck and Jade inevitably get back together. Because I refuse to believe that he's that much of an emotionless robot and then I can explore the reasons why he would try to kiss Tori and stuff like that. Would you guys be interested in reading that?_

_Actually, I have about twenty different ideas for oneshots (because apparently I'm interested in writing those now, which I never really have been before) and stuff, mostly Bade stuff, outlined on my phone. So whenever I get around to writing all of those, they'll probably be making some appearances. XP_


End file.
